The Fronteras Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Children turning to ghosts as they ride their
Trains outside of Mexico- the tricky tracks of the
Foundlings- they go into the emptiness of
The desert
Hallucinating for orange groves and the fresh
Waters of their soul to fill in their
Shoulder blades
Like stewardesses serving them soft drinks
Upon the long distant airplanes-
As if something beautiful trapped inside an
Ugly dream,
Spilling themselves towards their mother’s
Milk across the fronteras- or across the yellowed
Cinders into towns with other eyes
And apathetic tongues.